Life — March 8, 1883 — page 11: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

LINES ON A PATCHWORK QUILT. MARKED “ PRISCILLA Gossoo.” ELL me not of the fabrics of Persia, Of the silks of the Inde or Peru ; They are naught to the gossamer woven By thy hands, oh, Priscilla Gossoo ! How tell of its intricate pattern ? How picture its radiant hue ? My pen can but feebly describe it. Forgive me, Priscilla Gossoo ! A circle of yellow and purple, An octagon picked out in blue, Elliptical figures in crimson,— Like thy lips, oh, Priscilla Gossoo ! Dare I speak of the stitches and hemmii The bias and overcasts too ?— ‘Tis enough for the end and beginning That they're thine, oh, Priscilla Gossoo ! A garden of choicest exotics, A web iridescent with dew— So seems to my vision enraptured Thy quilt, oh, Priscilla Gossoo! There's a rent in my heart, oh, Priscilla, In this fond heart, so tender and true; ‘Tis thy patchwork has done it, Priscilla ; Oh, darn it! Priscilla Gossoo ! C. G. Buck. However it may be that a man is known by the company he keeps, it is to be hoped that his accountability ceases with life, and that his final reckoning is made without regard to who may have come to his funeral. | STEAM SKIP “) EK — Philanthropic Passenger to Irish Emigrant, with small bundle: WHERE'S YOUR TRUNK, PaT? PuwatT ‘up O1 DO WID A THRUNK? Put YOUR CLOTHES IN IT. AN’ ME GO NAKED? stoppin’ every minute and stoopin’ down like he was a-whispering to him. And one day I went in again, and the spider was a hangin’ alas and cold in death, and I poked him with a splinter and his web broke off—'spect he'd used it all up on the wicked bug—and it killed him. And I buried him ina ink bottle, and I mashed the old bug with a chip. I like spiders, ‘cause they ‘tend to their knittin’ and don’t ask no boot of their grandmother. THE WOLF AND THE WATCHDOG. A Wo tr, having formed a friendship with a Watch- dog on the comprehensive Basis of their Common De- scent from a canine ancestor and upon the honest Far- mer's sheepfold, was invited by the Dog to accompany him to the Farm and enter the Detective Force. ‘The Wolf, attracted by the prospect of obtaining regular Ra- tions as well as an opportunity to gratify his maraud- ing tastes, consented, but as they were faring thither- ward, noticing a bare patch upon the neck of his Com- panion, he could not forbear asking him who cut his hair. “O, that,” replied the Dog, “is the mark caused by the collar which I wear at night.” “ Say you so?” ex- claimed the Wolf—‘‘ then revénons @ nos moutons?” “O, nonsense,” answered the Dog, “ you can easily slip it or sell it at the junk-shop, or at the worst you can patent it as an electric chest-protector. Come along!” Re- assured by these statements, the Wolf followed his Companion to the Farmyard, where the Dog introduc- ed him into the presence of the Farmer, and seizing him by the throat held him until the Laborers, alarm- ed at their master’s outcry, could come up and despatch the lupine intruder, to the great delight of the Farmer who forebore to hang the Watchdog, which he had long suspected of worrying his sheep, being convinced that that devoted animal had slain the real Culprit. Morat.—Who Sups with a Detective should have a Long Spoon. G.T. L. comicbooks.com